


St. Vitus

by gloriouscacophony (KatrinaKay)



Series: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 - SFW [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 02:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20499662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatrinaKay/pseuds/gloriouscacophony
Summary: Ineffable Husbands Week - Day 1: Dancing/Music/PoetryIn which Aziraphale and Crowley are both sent to investigate the mysterious outbreak of St. Vitus's Dance in 1500s Strasbourg but decide to drink a lot of wine instead.





	St. Vitus

  


  
  
  
**_Strasbourg, 1518_**

Aziraphale tugged on his high collar, beginning to sweat beneath the heavy layers of clothes as the late July sun beat down on him. Normally, he’d have transported himself a little closer to the city center, but the faint presence of demonic influence around the area had led him to instead appear in the farmland nearby. And then a cow had tried to eat the feather off his hat. The whole experience made him long for the days of ancient Rome, where togas and robes were the style instead of these dreadful layers of hose and sleeves and doublets.

By the time he huffed and puffed his way to the edges of the city, he could already hear the chaos—shouts and scuffles and cries and, over it all, music: the reedy sounds of pipes and the deep, echoing vibration of drums. And then, before he reached the city center proper, he saw the first dancers.

A woman, being led by her somber-faced husband and children, her body swaying and limbs moving in graceful, sweeping motions. She didn’t resist being led away, towards the city center. He followed her and her family to the large, open square at the center of town, where dozens of dancers welcomed her into their ranks (at least, the ones who were not yet exhausted and wan after days of unceasing movement).

Aziraphale stood watching for a few minutes before the incessant heat of the sun became too much. These Gothic buildings did lack good shade from the direct light overhead and also blocked any cool air from the nearby water. An inn or tavern could provide him with respite, and some information as well.

One of the taverns facing the square where the dancers were sequestered seemed to be doing a roaring trade, perhaps due to the very small (and quite crowded) upper-floor balconies, where locals and visitors alike could gawp at the afflicted.

Inside, it took some minutes for Aziraphale to get the bartender’s attention, and he was dismayed to learn that he’d have to buy a drink to stay inside and ask nosy questions (as the bartender put it, with a slightly menacing air that said he’d had more than enough business for one day but wouldn’t turn away profit). Sighing, Aziraphale performed a quick, discreet spell, then handed the man the coins.

“Here’s yer drink, _ monsieur_. Don’t know much about all this, started a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, and?” Aziraphale prodded, tentatively accepting the wine. 

“And nothing. No one knows what’s causing it, the dancing. Only once they start, they can’t stop, and some of ‘em in other towns have even started to travel. To keep ‘em here, the emperor had the musicians come in, play music, but it’s been weeks now and the music never stops. _ Idiots sanglants… _” 

The sound of something breaking at the far end of the counter pulls the bartender’s attention, and he leaves Aziraphale alone with his wine. A delicate sniff deems it palatable, and Aziraphale has just taken a rather large swig (it had been dreadfully hot outside, after all) when he feels someone brush around him, and a cool breath at his ear.

“_Bonjour_, angel. Long time no see.”

Aziraphale choked on the mouthful of wine, stopping just short of spitting it across the bar in surprise as he whirled to see… “Crowley! You startled me!” But his grin belies his scolding tone as he looks the demon up and down. Of course, he’s not sweating and groaning in the heat; Crowley always looks perfectly sheveled, even in the many layers this decade requires, the bastard.

“Have a drink with me, the wine’s decent.”

“I very much doubt anything you get here is decent. Have you seen those buggers outside? Hardly behaving _ decently_.”

Aziraphale had opened his mouth to reply, but a commotion at the far end of the room made it impossible to be heard. Looking around quickly, he spotted a fairly quiet corner with a fortunately empty table. Perhaps because there appears to be vomit or something spilled nearby, but a wave of his hand and the table is sparkling clean. They pushed their way through the crowd—apparently another person had fallen to dancing and was being corralled outside—to take a seat.

“Crowley, please don’t tell me _ you _ had anything to do with this.” Another cup appears in his hand and he fills it, passing it to the demon who’s sprawled, all pointy wrists and elbows, across the table.

“Nope, not me. Was in Paris and popped in to see what all the fuss is about. Just seems like a lot of peasants taking a load off, letting loose. Honestly,” Crowley replied, after a sip of wine that evokes a grimace, “we kind of thought it was your lot. They’re all calling whatever’s happening ‘Saint Vitus’s Dance’, you know.”

“Hm, well, _ I _ haven’t heard anything from Above. I was in Japan, enjoying some lovely _ ujicha _ when they told me to come have a look,” Aziraphale said with a slight pout at the wine. It really was quite terrible, especially compared to that tea. And making it appear wouldn’t be the same. He’d still know it wasn’t the genuine thing.

“I’m telling you, it’s got to be some kind of hoax. It’s all the latest fashion ‘round these parts—anybody who’s somebody is out there dancing ‘til they drop,” Crowley said, “And the worst part is none of the really _ good _ dances have been invented yet. The ones where all the different bits touch and—”

“Yes, yes, all right,” Aziraphale interjected, blushing furiously. “Well if it’s a hoax or a trick or something, why are _ we _ here?”

“No idea, angel. I just go where they send me, until they forget about me and I can go off to do what I want.”

“Sounds about right,” Aziraphale replied, looking down at his cup to see it was empty. Then, suddenly, it refilled, and he looked up to see Crowley waving his hand in a mocking bow. “Oh, thank you!”

“So,” he said after he’d taken a large sip of wine (a much better wine, thankfully, than the cup’s original contents), “what have you been up to? It’s been, goodness, what, a few centuries?”

Over several more cups of wine (and another, real bottle purchased from the bartender to satisfy Aziraphale’s slight guilt, even though he’d paid with more conjured coins), Crowley catches him up on his adventures since their brief encounter in Arthur’s England and another, less confrontational meeting during the plague years. Mostly, performing small misdeeds to confuse and annoy the gentry and reward the peasantry, lots of boils and digestive issues and missing horses.

“Well, t-that does’n sound right!” Azirphale complained, hours later. “When you w’re in Bristol?”

“‘M telling you, angel,” Crowley replied, equally sloshed and waving his noodly arms around for emphasis. “I saw ‘m with my own eyes. Had to be ‘m ‘cause who else struts around like a great bloody git wi’ that smug look, y’know the one…” Crowley, who’s ditched his dark lenses for a moment, does his best to imitate Sandalphon’s bulldog-like face wearing its usual beady-eyed look of superiority but, as Aziraphale points out in between deep belly laughs, only succeeds in looking quite constipated.

When the tavern shuts for the night and kicks them out, they stumble outside, laughing and using each other for balance, their latest bottle of wine almost empty in Aziraphale’s hand. By firelight, the dancers are still moving to the sounds of drums and pipes, but more subdued now, as though the surrounding quiet has dulled their fervor for a time.

“Hey, hey, you gits! Shake a leg an’ get moving, then! No rest for the wicked, eh?” Crowley shouts at them, snorting laughter as he leaned on Aziraphale, who has the presence of mind to attempt to hide his amusement behind a look of righteous disdain for the idiot demon beside him.

“R-really, Crowl’y, don’t taunt the poor things. They can’ help it.” He doesn’t know where they’re going as they leave the square and its inhabitants behind, but they arrive at the water’s edge and plonk their corporations down on the dewy grass. 

“Poor things my left—ow, hey, tha’ hurt!” Crowley rubs the tender skin on his neck where Aziraphale had pinched him, but the angel can see the mark is still there when the demon moves his hand away. Without thinking, Aziraphale leans in and presses his mouth to the mark. It fades into the pale skin, leaving only a small brown freckle behind.

When he pulls back, Crowley’s serpentine eyes are wide behind his dark glasses, which have slid down the bridge of his nose, and his cheeks are ruddy from more than the heat of the wine.

“Ngk,” he replies, so Aziraphale touches the tip of a finger to the spot, curious to see what Crowley will do if he runs it from the former mark down along his collar where lace meets doublet. 

“Hrk,” Crowley replies, looking down at the angel’s hand where it rests on his collarbone. “What’re you, stop that.”

He tries to shrug Aziraphale’s hand away, and the angel snorts indelicately before collapsing forward, planting his face into Crowley’s chest as he dissolves into breathy giggles.

Crowley’s blush deepens as he shoves the angel off of him into the grass, not ungently. “Geroff.”

When Aziraphale has caught his breath, he wipes the tears of mirth from his eyes and looks up at Crowley, who’s leaned back and turned his face to the blissfully cooler night air. “Ev’n if this was a wild goose chase, an’ even if y’r my mortal enemy…” Aziraphale says, as the demon looks down at him with a slight frown, “‘m glad to see you again.”

“You too, angel,” Crowley replies. “Now hand over tha’ wine, iss my turn.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2 sittings, one right after a 22-mile bike ride. Please be kind, I'm so tired. I know nothing about 1500s Strasbourg but the prompt immediately made me think of the curious phenomenon of St. Vitus's Dance, a dancing mania that struck Europe some 600+ years ago that hasn't yet been definitely solved.


End file.
